Louisville IronMan - Race Narrative Part Three - The Run

The transition to the run? The best part about it was actually going to the bathroom. I completely changed my clothes, because after 112 miles in bike gear, I was done with those clothes.

So rather than 8 minutes for T1, it was 11 minutes for T2, 3 minutes of which was spent in the porta potty. I am not kidding.

The run was gorgeous, the first loop over a bridge and back. The sky was blue, it was only mid 70s, as it had been the whole race. There was a breeze, my legs felt great. The course looped through town and then headed straight out along a shady road, slightly downhill. The road was bordered with tall trees, homes, occasional overpasses, and stations every mile.

I saw people in their sixties on the run, which meant they had kicked my butt on the swim and bike. This was a great vision - one can do these things for a long, long time...with proper planning. I congratulated them as I passed them.

My pace started slowly and I walked each stop, so I was around a 9 minute plus pace with walking. It felt fine. We turned around somewhere near 10 miles, then headed back the way we’d come and did a loop right near the finish line somewhere around 13 miles. My plan was to stay steady until 20 or 21, then see what I had left. I tried to use gels and water, or skip those and drink some Gatorade, alternating as I felt my sugar levels rise and fall.

At 14 miles, I felt something odd. Exhaustion. It wasn’t pain. My knee didn’t hurt. It was almost as if a fog settled into my body. My limbs wouldn’t move faster, even as I willed them to. I just couldn’t move. By 16 miles, I needed to walk the entire water stop, not just enough to drink, so I knew I was losing time. By 19miles, I realized that those minutes had added up, and I was 15 minutes off pace. How had that happened?!? I had been passing a lot of people and continued to, so we must have all been slowing down. Crumbs, I thought. This isn’t going at all how I had planned.

So I started drinking chicken broth. The day was receding. The night was edging inn from the dark trees. I knew the turnaround was around 20 miles, and I thought then that I would have to wait until 23 miles to kick it, because if I did that any sooner, I’d be sunk and have to walk my way in. So I toughed it out, drinking chicken broth and water, and trying to stay on pace with other runners nearby. It grew more and more dusky, and glow sticks started appearing at the water stations, though no one asked those of us headed in to put one on.

Imagine then, running in gray, with shadows closing in on you. There were no street lights yet, or just a few. The houses and trees blurred into thick barricades, and the blinking traffic lights from the disabled corners were hot and red and beckoning. Just up there, I would think, must be 23. Keep going.

By then, the volunteers were pooped. They had been offering drinks and food and water and Gatorade with enthusiasm, and now they were distracted, goofing around, sometimes surprised by runners who emerged from the shadows. Another runner and I were pacing each other up to 22, and then at about 22 and a half, my body returned.

It was an odd feeling. I took a step, and then another, and then another, and I bounced back into myself and took off. She faded. Actually, everyone one did. And around 24, I was completely into it. I stopped for a brief sip of water, when someone said, “you’re going to make it,” and I thought, “How much time can I get back?”

I thought, run as hard as you can until you hit a wall. It felt like an 830-845 pace, especially without walking, and by 25 I could hear the crowds, and by 26, and one more turn to the finish, I could see them.

Imagine then complete darkness except for a bright, white light, and crowds literally screaming from excitement. For about 100 yards, people were yelling and putting out their hands to be slapped, and as I heard, “Nancy Picard from Chicago, Illinois, you are an IROMAN!” I drew my hands across theirs and cruised in, just has I heard my partner yelling from the other side of the barriers, and turned to see her holding our 4-year-old, and I could see the top of our 5-year-old's head, bobbing up and down over the barricade to see me.

Fun day. 13.33 hours later. Fun, fun day.